Winds of Winter - Sneakpeek Chapters

8/9/2019 Winds of Winter - Sneakpeek Chapters

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Theon

The king's voice was choked with anger. "You are a worse pirate than Salladhor Saan."

Theon Greyjoy opened his eyes. His shoulders were on fire and he could not move his hands.

For half a heartbeat he feared he was back in his old cell under the Dreadfort, that the jumble

of memories inside his head was no more than the residue of some fever dream. I was asleep,

he realized. That, or passed out from the pain. When he tried to move, he swung from side to

side, his back scraping against stone. He was hanging from a wall inside a tower, his wrists

chained to a pair of rusted iron rings.

The air reeked of burning peat. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Wooden steps spiraled up

inside the walls to the roof. He saw no windows. The tower was dank, dark, and comfortless,

its only furnishings a high-backed chair and a scarred table resting on three trestles. No privy

was in evidence, though Theon saw a champerpot in one shadowed alcove. The only light

came from the candles on the table. His feet dangled six feet off the floor.

"My brother's debts," the king was muttering. "Joffrey's too, though that baseborn

abomination was no kin to me." Theon twisted in his chains. He knew that voice. Stannis.

Theon Greyjoy chortled. A stab of pain went up his arms, from his shoulders to his wrists. All

he had done, all he had suffered, Moat Cailin and Barrowton and Winterfell, Abel and his

washerwomen, Crowfood and his Umbers, the trek through the snows, all of it had only served

to exchange one tormentor for another.

"Your Grace," a second voice said softly. "Pardon, but your ink has frozen." The Braavosi,Theon knew. What was his name? Tycho... Tycho something... "Perhaps a bit of heat... ?"

"I know a quicker way." Stannis drew his dagger. For an instant Theon thought that he meant

to stab the banker. You will never get a drop of blood from that one, my lord, he might have

told him. The king laid the blade of the knife against the ball of his left thumb, and slashed.

"There. I will sign in mine own blood. That ought to make your masters happy."

"If it please Your Grace, it will please the Iron Bank."

Stannis dipped a quill in the blood welling from his thumb and scratched his name across the

piece of parchment. "You will depart today. Lord Bolton may be on us soon. I will not have youcaught up in the fighting."

"That would be my preference as well." The Braavosi slipped the roll of parchment inside a

wooden tube. "I hope to have the honor of calling on Your Grace again when you are seated

on your Iron Throne."

"You hope to have your gold, you mean. Save your pleasantries. It is coin I need from Braavos,

not empty courtesy. Tell the guard outside I have need of Justin Massey."

"It would be my pleasure. The Iron Bank is always glad to be of service." The banker bowed.


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As he left, another entered; a knight. The king's knights had been coming and going all night,

Theon recalled dimly. This one seemed to be the king's familiar. Lean, dark-haired, hard-eyed,

his face marred by pockmarks and old scars, he wore a faded surcoat embroidered with three

moths. "Sire," he announced, "the maester is without. And Lord Arnolf sends word that he

would be most pleased to break his fast with you."

"The son as well?"

"And the grandsons. Lord Wull seeks audience as well. He wants "

"I know what he wants." The king indicated Theon. "Him. Wull wants him dead. Flint, Norrey...

all of them will want him dead. For the boys he slew. Vengeance for their precious Ned."

"Will you oblige them?"

"Just now, the turncloak is more use to me alive. He has knowledge we may need. Bring in this

maester." The king plucked a parchment off the table and squinted over it. A letter, Theonknew. Its broken seal was black wax, hard and shiny. I know what that says, he thought,

giggling.

Stannis looked up. "The turncloak stirs."

"Theon. My name is Theon." He had to remember his name.

"I know your name. I know what you did."

"I saved her." The outer wall of Winterfell was eighty feet high, but beneath the spot where he

had jumped the snows had piled up to a depth of more than forty. A cold white pillow. The girlhad taken the worst of it. Jeyne, her name is Jeyne, but she will never tell them. Theon had

landed on top of her, and broken some of her ribs. "I saved the girl," he said. "We flew."

Stannis snorted. "You fell. Umber saved her. If Mors Crowfood and his men had not been

outside the castle, Bolton would have had the both of you back in moments."

Crowfood. Theon remembered. An old man, huge and powerful, with a ruddy face and a

shaggy white beard. He had been seated on a garron, clad in the pelt of a gigantic snow bear,

its head his hood. Under it he wore a stained white leather eye patch that reminded Theon of

his uncle Euron. He'd wanted to rip it off Umber's face, to make certain that underneath wasonly an empty socket, not a black eye shining with malice. Instead he had whimpered through

his broken teeth and said, "I am "

" a turncloak and a kinslayer," Crowfood had finished. "You will hold that lying tongue, or

lose it."

But Umber had looked at the girl closely, squinting down with his one good eye. "You are the

younger daughter?"

And Jeyne had nodded. "Arya. My name is Arya."


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"Arya of Winterfell, aye. When last I was inside those walls, your cook served us a steak and

kidney pie. Made with ale, I think, best I ever tasted. What was his name, that cook?"

"Gage," Jeyne said at once. "He was a good cook. He would make lemoncakes for Sansa

whenever we had lemons."

Crowfood had fingered his beard. "Dead now, I suppose. That smith of yours as well. A man

who knew his steel. What was his name?"

Jeyne had hesitated. Mikken, Theon thought. His name was Mikken. The castle blacksmith had

never made any lemoncakes for Sansa, which made him far less important than the castle cook

in the sweet little world she had shared with her friend Jeyne Poole. Remember, damn you.

Your father was the steward, he had charge of the whole household. The smith's name was

Mikken, Mikken, Mikken. I had him put to death before me!

"Mikken," Jeyne said.

Mors Umber had grunted. "Aye." What he might have said or done next Theon never learned,

for that was when the boy ran up, clutching a spear and shouting that the portcullis on

Winterfell's main gate was rising. And how Crowfood had grinned at that.

Theon twisted in his chains, and blinked down at the king. "Crowfood found us, yes, he sent us

here to you, but it was me who saved her. Ask her yourself." She would tell him. "You saved

me," Jeyne had whispered, as he was carrying her through the snow. She was pale with pain,

but she had brushed one hand across his cheek and smiled. "I saved Lady Arya," Theon

whispered back at her. And then all at once Mors Umber's spears were all around them. "Is

this my thanks?" he asked Stannis, kicking feebly against the wall. His shoulders were in agony.His own weight was tearing them from their sockets. How long had he been hanging here?

Was it still night outside? The tower was windowless, he had no way to know.

"Unchain me, and I will serve you."

"As you served Roose Bolton and Robb Stark?" Stannis snorted. "I think not. We have a

warmer end in mind for you, turncloak. But not until we're done with you."

He means to kill me. The thought was queerly comforting. Death did not frighten Theon

Greyjoy. Death would mean an end to pain. "Be done with me, then," he urged the king. "Take

off my head off and stick it on a spear. I slew Lord Eddard's sons, I ought to die. But do it quick.

He is coming."

"Who is coming? Bolton?"

"Lord Ramsay," Theon hissed. "The son, not the father. You must not let him take him. Roose...

Roose is safe within the walls of Winterfell with his fat new wife. Ramsay is coming."

"Ramsay Snow, you mean. The Bastard."

"Never call him that!" Spittle sprayed from Theon's lips. "Ramsay Bolton, not Ramsay Snow,

never Snow, never, you have to remember his name, or he will hurt you."


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"He is welcome to try. Whatever name he goes by."

The door opened with a gust of cold black wind and a swirl of snow. The knight of the moths

had returned with the maester the king had sent for, his grey robes concealed beneath a heavy

bearskin pelt. Behind them came two other knights, each carrying a raven in a cage. One was

the man who'd been with Asha when the banker delivered him to her, a burly man with a

winged pig on his surcoat. The other was taller, broad-shouldered and brawny. The big man's

breastplate was silvered steel inlaid with niello; though scratched and dinted, it still shone in

the candlelight. The cloak that he wore over it was fastened with a burning heart.

"Maester Tybald," announced the knight of the moths.

The maester sank to his knees. He was red-haired and round-shouldered, with close-set eyes

that kept flicking toward Theon hanging on the wall. "Your Grace. How may I be of service?"

Stannis did not reply at once. He studied the man before him, his brow furrowed. "Get up."

The maester rose. "You are maester at the Dreadfort. How is it you are here with us?"

"Lord Arnolf brought me to tend to his wounded."

"To his wounded? Or his ravens?"

"Both, Your Grace."

"Both." Stannis snapped the word out. "A maester's raven flies to one place, and one place

only. Is that correct?"

The maester mopped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "N-not entirely, Your Grace. Most,yes. Some few can be taught to fly between two castles. Such birds are greatly prized. And

once in a very great while, we find a raven who can learn the names of three or four or five

castles, and fly to each upon command. Birds as clever as that come along only once in a

hundred years."

Stannis gestured at the black birds in the cages. "These two are not so clever, I presume."

"No, Your Grace. Would that it were so."

"Tell me, then. Where are these two trained to fly?"

Maester Tybald did not answer. Theon Greyjoy kicked his feet feebly, and laughed under his

breath. Caught!

"Answer me. If we were to loose these birds, would they return to the Dreadfort?" The king

leaned forward. "Or might they fly for Winterfell instead?"

Maester Tybald pissed his robes. Theon could not see the dark stain spreading from where he

hung, but the smell of piss was sharp and strong.

"Maester Tybald has lost his tongue," Stannis observed to his knights. "Godry, how many cages

did you find?"


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"Three, Your Grace," said the big knight in the silvered breastplate. "One was empty."

"Y-your Grace, my order is sworn to serve, we... "

"I know all about your vows. What I want to know is what was in the letter that you sent to

Winterfell. Did you perchance tell Lord Bolton where to find us?"

"S-sire." Round-shouldered Tybald drew himself up proudly.

"The rules of my order forbid me to divulge the contents of Lord Arnolf's letters."

"Your vows are stronger than your bladder, it would seem."

"Your Grace must understand "

"Must I?" The king shrugged. "If you say so. You are a man of learning, after all. I had a maester

on Dragonstone who was almost a father to me. I have great respect for your order and its

vows. Ser Clayton does not share my feelings, though. He learned all he knows in the wynds of

Flea Bottom. Were I to put you in his charge, he might strangle you with your own chain or

scoop your eye out with a spoon."

"Only the one, Your Grace," volunteered the balding knight, him of the winged pig. "I'd leave

t'other."

"How many eyes does a maester need to read a letter?" asked Stannis. "One should suffice, I'd

think. I would not wish to leave you unable to fulfill your duties to your lord. Roose Bolton's

men may well be on their way to attack us even now, however, so you must understand if I

skimp on certain courtesies. I will ask you once again. What was in the message you sent toWinterfell?"

The maester quivered. "A m-map, Your Grace."

The king leaned back in his chair. "Get him out of here," he commanded. "Leave the ravens." A

vein was throbbing in his neck. "Confine this grey wretch to one of the huts until I decide what

is to be done with him."

"It will be done," the big knight declared. The maester vanished in another blast of cold and

snow. Only the knight of the three moths remained.

Stannis glowered up at Theon where he hung. "You are not the only turncloak here, it would

seem. Would that all the lords in the Seven Kingdoms had but a single neck... " He turned to his

knight. "Ser Richard, whilst I am breaking fast with Lord Arnolf, you are to disarm his men and

take them into custody. Most will be asleep. Do them no harm, unless they resist. It may be

they did not know. Question some upon that point... but sweetly. If they had no knowledge of

this treachery, they shall have the chance to prove their loyalty." He snapped a hand in

dismissal. "Send in Justin Massey."

Another knight, Theon knew, when Massey entered. This one was fair, with a neatly trimmed

blond beard and thick straight hair so pale it seemed more white than gold. His tunic bore the


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triple spiral, an ancient sigil for an ancient House. "I was told Your Grace had need of me," he

said, from one knee.

Stannis nodded. "You will escort the Braavosi banker back to the Wall. Choose six good men

and take twelve horses."

"To ride or eat?"

The king was not amused. "I want you gone before midday, ser. Lord Bolton could be on us any

moment, and it is imperative that the banker return to Braavos. You shall accompany him

across the narrow sea."

"If there is to be a battle, my place is here with you."

"Your place is where I say it is. I have five hundred swords as good as you, or better, but you

have a pleasing manner and a glib tongue, and those will be of more use to me at Braavos then

here. The Iron Bank has opened its coffers to me. You will collect their coin and hire ships andsellswords. A company of good repute, if you can find one. The Golden Company would be my

first choice, if they are not already under contract. Seek for them in the Disputed Lands, if need

be. But first hire as many swords as you can find in Braavos, and send them to me by way of

Eastwatch. Archers as well, we need more bows."

Ser Justin's hair had fallen down across one eye. He pushed it back and said, "The captains of

the free companies will join a lord more readily than a mere knight, Your Grace. I hold neither

lands nor title, why should they sell their swords to me?"

"Go to them with both fists full of golden dragons," the king said, in an acid tone. "That shouldprove persuasive. Twenty thousand men should suffice. Do not return with fewer."

"Sire, might I speak freely?"

"So long as you speak quickly."

"Your Grace should go to Braavos with the banker."

"Is that your counsel? That I should flee?" The king's face darkened. "That was your counsel on

the Blackwater as well, as I recall. When the battle turned against us, I let you and Horpe

chivvy me back to Dragonstone like a whipped cur."

"The day was lost, Your Grace."

"Aye, that was what you said. 'The day is lost, sire. Fall back now, that you may fight again.'

And now you would have me scamper off across the narrow sea... "

"... to raise an army, aye. As Bittersteel did after the Battle of the Redgrass Field, where

Daemon Blackfyre fell."

"Do not prate at me of history, ser. Daemon Blackfyre was a rebel and usurper, Bittersteel a

bastard. When he fled, he swore he would return to place a son of Daemon's upon the Iron

Throne. He never did. Words are wind, and the wind that blows exiles across the narrow sea


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seldom blows them back. That boy Viserys Targaryen spoke of return as well. He slipped

through my fingers at Dragonstone, only to spend his life wheedling after sellswords. 'The

Beggar King,' they called him in the Free Cities. Well, I do not beg, nor will I flee again. I am

Robert's heir, the rightful king of Westeros. My place is with my men. Yours is in Braavos. Go

with the banker, and do as I have bid."

"As you command," Ser Justin said.

"It may be that we shall lose this battle," the king said grimly. "In Braavos you may hear that I

am dead. It may even be true. You shall find my sellswords nonetheless."

The knight hesitated. "Your Grace, if you are dead "

" you will avenge my death, and seat my daughter on the Iron Throne. Or die in the

attempt."

Ser Justin put one hand on his sword hilt. "On my honor as a knight, you have my word."

"Oh, and take the Stark girl with you. Deliver her to Lord Commander Snow on your way to

Eastwatch." Stannis tapped the parchment that lay before him. "A true king pays his debts."

Pay it, aye, thought Theon. Pay it with false coin. Jon Snow would see through the impostesure

at once. Lord Stark's sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of

his little half-sister Arya.

"The black brothers will accompany you as far as Castle Black," the king went on. "The ironmen

are to remain here, supposedly to fight for us. Another gift from Tycho Nestoris. Just as well,

they would only slow you down. Ironmen were made for ships, not horses. Lady Arya should

have a female companion as well. Take Alysane Mormont."

Ser Justin pushed back his hair again. "And Lady Asha?"

The king considered that a moment. "No."

"One day Your Grace will need to take the Iron Islands. That will go much easier with Balon

Greyjoy's daughter as a catspaw, with one of your own leal men as her lord husband."

"You?" The king scowled. "The woman is wed, Justin."

"A proxy marriage, never consummated. Easily set aside. The groom is old besides. Like to die

soon."

From a sword through his belly if you have your way, ser worm. Theon knew how these knights

thought.

Stannis pressed his lips together. "Serve me well in this matter of the sellswords, and you may

have what you desire. Until such time, the woman must needs remain my captive."

Ser Justin bowed his head. "I understand."


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That only seemed to irritate the king. "Your understanding is not required. Only your

obedience. Be on your way, ser."

This time, when the knight took his leave, the world beyond the door seemed more white than

black.

Stannis Baratheon paced the floor. The tower was a small one, dank and cramped. A few steps

brought the king around to Theon. "How many men does Bolton have at Winterfell?"

"Five thousand. Six. More." He gave the king a ghastly grin, all shattered teeth and splinters.

"More than you."

"How many of those is he like to send against us?"

"No more than half." That was a guess, admittedly, but it felt right to him. Roose Bolton was

not a man to blunder blindly out into the snow, map or no. He would hold his main strength in

reserve, keep his best men with him, trust in Winterfell's massive double wall. "The castle wastoo crowded. Men were at each other's throats, the Manderlys and Freys especially. It's them

his lordship's sent after you, the ones that he's well rid of."

"Wyman Manderly." The king's mouth twisted in contempt. "Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse. Too

fat to come to me, yet he comes to Winterfell. Too fat to bend the knee and swear me his

sword, yet now he wields that sword for Bolton. I sent my Onion Lord to treat with him, and

Lord Too-Fat butchered him and mounted his head and hands on the walls of White Harbor for

the Freys to gloat over. And the Freys... has the Red Wedding been forgotten?"

"The north remembers. The Red Wedding, Lady Hornwood's fingers, the sack of Winterfell,Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square, they remember all of it." Bran and Rickon. They were

only miller's boys. "Frey and Manderly will never combine their strengths. They will come for

you, but separately. Lord Ramsay will not be far behind them. He wants his bride back. He

wants his Reek." Theon's laugh was half a titter, half a whimper. "Lord Ramsay is the one Your

Grace should fear."

Stannis bristled at that. "I defeated your uncle Victarion and his Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, the first

time your father crowned himself. I held Storm's End against the power of the Reach for a

year, and took Dragonstone from the Targaryens. I smashed Mance Rayder at the Wall, though

he had twenty times my numbers. Tell me, turncloak, what battles has the Bastard of Boltonever won that I should fear him?"

You must not call him that! A wave of pain washed over Theon Greyjoy. He closed his eyes and

grimaced. When he opened them again, he said, "You do not know him."

"No more than he knows me."

"Knows me," cried one of the ravens the maester had left behind. It flapped its big black wings

against the bars of its cage.

"Knows," it cried again.

Stannis turned. "Stop that noise."


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Behind him, the door opened. The Karstarks had arrived.

Bent and twisted, the castellan of Karhold leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way to

the table. Lord Arnolf's cloak was fine grey wool, bordered in black sable and clasped with asilver starburst. A rich garment, Theon thought, on a poor excuse for a man. He had seen that

cloak before, he knew, just as he had seen the man who wore it. At the Dreadfort. I remember.

He sat and supped with Lord Ramsay and Whoresbane Umber, the night they brought Reek up

from his cell.

The man beside him could only be his son. Fifty, Theon judged, with a round soft face like his

father's, if Lord Arnolf went to fat. Behind him walked three younger men. The grandsons, he

surmised. One wore a chainmail byrnie. The rest were dressed for breakfast, not for battle.

Fools.

"Your Grace." Arnolf Karstark bowed his head. "An honor." He looked for a seat. Instead his

eyes found Theon. "And who is this?" Recognition came a heartbeat later. Lord Arnolf paled.

His stupid son remained oblivious. "There are no chairs," the oaf observed. One of the ravens

screamed inside its cage.

"Only mine." King Stannis sat in it. "It is no Iron Throne, but here and now it suits." A dozen

men had filed through the tower door, led by the knight of the moths and the big man in the

silvered breastplate. "You are dead men, understand that," the king went on. "Only the

manner of your dying remains to be determined. You would be well advised not to waste my

time with denials. Confess, and you shall have the same swift end that the Young Wolf gaveLord Rickard. Lie, and you will burn. Choose."

"I choose this." One of the grandsons seized his sword hilt, and made to draw it.

That proved to be a poor choice. The grandson's blade had not even cleared his scabbard

before two of the king's knights were on him. It ended with his forearm flopping in the dirt and

blood spurting from his stump, and one of his brothers stumbling for the stairs, clutching a

belly wound. He staggered up six steps before he fell, and came crashing back down to the

floor.

Neither Arnolf Karstark nor his son had moved.

"Take them away," the king commanded. "The sight of them sours my stomach." Within

moments, the five men had been bound and removed. The one who had lost his sword arm

had fainted from loss of blood, but his brother with the belly wound screamed loud enough for

both of them. "That is how I deal with betrayal, turncloak," Stannis informed Theon.

"My name is Theon."

"As you will. Tell me, Theon, how many men did Mors Umber have with him at Winterfell?"

"None. No men." He grinned at his own wit. "He had boys. I saw them." Aside from a handful

of half-crippled serjeants, the warriors that Crowfood had brought down from Last Hearth


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were hardly old enough to shave. "Their spears and axes were older than the hands that

clutched them. It was Whoresbane Umber who had the men, inside the castle. I saw them too.

Old men, every one." Theon tittered. "Mors took the green boys and Hother took the

greybeards. All the real men went with the Greatjon and died at the Red Wedding. Is that what

you wanted to know, Your Grace?"

King Stannis ignored the jibe. "Boys," was all he said, disgusted. "Boys will not hold Lord Bolton

long."

"Not long," Theon agreed. "Not long at all."

"Not long," cried the raven from its cage.

The king gave the bird an irritated look. "That Braavosi banker claimed Ser Aenys Frey is dead.

Did some boy do that?"

"Twenty green boys, with spades," Theon told him. "The snow fell heavily for days. So heavilythat you could not see the castle walls ten yards away, no more than the men up on the

battlements could see what was happening beyond those walls. So Crowfood set his boys to

digging pits outside the castle gates, then blew his horn to lure Lord Bolton out. Instead he got

the Freys. The snow had covered up the pits, so they rode right into them. Aenys broke his

neck, I heard, but Ser Hosteen only lost a horse, more's the pity. He will be angry now."

Strangely, Stannis smiled. "Angry foes do not concern me. Anger makes men stupid, and

Hosteen Frey was stupid to begin with, if half of what I have heard of him is true. Let him

come."

"He will."

"Bolton has blundered," the king declared. "All he had to do was sit inside his castle whilst we

starved. Instead he has sent some portion of his strength forth to give us battle.

His knights will be horsed, ours must fight afoot. His men will be well nourished, ours go into

battle with empty bellies. It makes no matter. Ser Stupid, Lord Too-Fat, the Bastard, let them

come. We hold the ground, and that I mean to turn to our advantage."

"The ground?" said Theon. "What ground? Here? This misbegotten tower? This wretched little

village? You have no high ground here, no walls to hide beyond, no natural defenses."

"Yet."

"Yet," both ravens screamed in unison. Then one quorked, and the other muttered, "Tree,

tree, tree."

The door opened. Beyond, the world was white. The knight of the three moths entered, his

legs caked with snow. He stomped his feet to knock it off and said, "Your Grace, the Karstarks

are taken. A few of them resisted, and died for it. Most were too confused, and yielded quietly.

We have herded them all into the longhall and confined them there."

"Well done."


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"They say they did not know. The ones we've questioned."

"They would."

"We might question them more sharply... "

"No. I believe them. Karstark could never have hoped to keep his treachery a secret if he

shared his plans with every baseborn manjack in his service. Some drunken spearman would

have let it slip one night whilst laying with a whore. They did not need to know. They are

Karhold men. When the moment came they would have obeyed their lords, as they had done

all their lives."

"As you say, Sire."

"What of your own losses?"

"One of Lord Peasebury's men was killed, and two of mine were wounded. If it please YourGrace, though, the men are growing anxious. There are hundreds of them gathered around the

tower, wondering what's happened. Talk of treason is on every lip. No one knows who to trust,

or who might be arrested next. The northmen especially "

"I need to talk with them. Is Wull still waiting?"

"Him and Artos Flint. Will you see them?"

"Shortly. The kraken first."

"As you command." The knight took his leave.

My sister, Theon thought, my sweet sister. Though he had lost all feeling in his arms, he felt

the twisting in his gut, the same as when that bloodless Braavosi banker presented him to

Asha as a 'gift.' The memory still rankled. The burly, balding knight who'd been with her had

wasted no time shouting for help, so they'd had no more than a few moments before Theon

was dragged away to face the king. That was long enough. He had hated the look on Asha's

face when she realized who he was; the shock in her eyes, the pity in her voice, the way her

mouth twisted in disgust. Instead of rushing forward to embrace him, she had taken half a step

backwards. "Did the Bastard do this to you?" she had asked.

"Don't you call him that." Then the words came spilling out of Theon in a rush. He tried to tell

her all of it, about Reek and the Dreadfort and Kyra and the keys, how Lord Ramsay never took

anything but skin unless you begged for it. He told her how he'd saved the girl, leaping from

the castle wall into the snow. "We flew. Let Abel make a song of that, we flew." Then he had to

say who Abel was, and talk about the washerwomen who weren't truly washerwomen. By

then Theon knew how strange and incoherent all this sounded, yet somehow the words would

not stop. He was cold and sick and tired... and weak, so weak, so very weak.

She has to understand. She is my sister. He never wanted to do any harm to Bran or Rickon.

Reek made him kill those boys, not him Reek but the other one. "I am no kinslayer," he

insisted. He told her how he bedded down with Ramsay's bitches, warned her that Winterfell

was full of ghosts. "The swords were gone. Four, I think, or five. I don't recall. The stone kings


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are angry." He was shaking by then, trembling like an autumn leaf. "The heart tree knew my

name. The old gods. Theon, I heard them whisper. There was no wind but the leaves were

moving. Theon, they said. My name is Theon." It was good to say the name. The more he said

it, the less like he was to forget. "You have to know your name," he'd told his sister. "You... you

told me you were Esgred, but that was a lie. Your name is Asha."

"It is," his sister had said, so softly that he was afraid that she might cry. Theon hated that. He

hated women weeping. Jeyne Poole had wept all the way from Winterfell to here, wept until

her face was purple as a beetroot and the tears had frozen on her cheeks, and all because he

told her that she must be Arya, or else the wolves might send them back. "They trained you in

a brothel," he reminded her, whispering in her ear so the others would not hear. "Jeyne is the

next thing to a whore, you must go on being Arya." He meant no hurt to her. It was for her

own good, and his. She has to remember her name. When the tip of her nose turned black

from frostbite, and the one of the riders from the Night's Watch told her she might lose a piece

of it, Jeyne had wept over that as well. "No one will care what Arya looks like, so long as she is

heir to Winterfell," he assured her. "A hundred men will want to marry her. A thousand."

The memory left Theon writhing in his chains. "Let me down," he pleaded. "Just for a little

while, then you can hang me up again." Stannis Baratheon looked up at him, but did not

answer. "Tree," a raven cried. "Tree, tree, tree."

Then other bird said, "Theon," clear as day, as Asha came striding through the door.

Qarl the Maid was with her, and Tristifer Botley. Theon had known Botley since they were boys

together, back on Pyke. Why has she brought her pets? Does she mean to cut me free? They

would end the same way as the Karstarks, if she tried.

The king was displeased by their presence as well. "Your guards may wait without. If I meant

harm to you, two men would not dissuade me."

The ironborn bowed and retreated. Asha took a knee. "Your Grace. Must my brother be

chained like that? It seems a poor reward for bringing you the Stark girl."

The king's mouth twitched. "You have a bold tongue, my lady. Not unlike your turncloak

brother."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"It was not a compliment." Stannis gave Theon a long look. "The village lacks a dungeon, and I

have more prisoners than I anticipated when we halted here." He waved Asha to her feet. "You

may rise."

She stood. "The Braavosi ransomed my seven of my men from Lady Glover. I would glady pay a

ransom for my brother."

"There is not enough gold on all your Iron Islands. Your brother's hands are soaked with blood.

Farring is urging me to give him to R'hllor."

"Clayton Suggs as well, I do not doubt."


13/55

"Him, Corliss Penny, all the rest. Even Ser Richard here, who only loves the Lord of Light when

it suits his purposes."

"The red god's choir only knows a single song."

"So long as the song is pleasing in god's ears, let them sing. Lord Bolton's men will be heresooner than we would wish. Only Mors Umber stands between us, and your brother tells me

his levies are made up entirely of green boys. Men like to know their god is with them when

they go to battle."

"Not all your men worship the same god."

"I am aware of this. I am not the fool my brother was."

"Theon is my mother's last surviving son. When his brothers died, it shattered her. His death

will crush what remains of her... but I have not come to beg you for his life."

"Wise. I am sorry for your mother, but I do not spare the lives of turncloaks. This one,

especially. He slew two sons of Eddard Stark. Every northman in my service would abandon me

if I showed him any clemency. Your brother must die."

"Then do the deed yourself, Your Grace." The chill in Asha's voice made Theon shiver in his

chains. "Take him out across the lake to the islet where the weirwood grows, and strike his

head off with that sorcerous sword you bear. That is how Eddard Stark would have done it.

Theon slew Lord Eddard's sons. Give him to Lord Eddard's gods. The old gods of the north. Give

him to the tree."

And suddenly there came a wild thumping, as the maester's ravens hopped and flapped inside

their cages, their black feathers flying as they beat against the bars with loud and raucous

caws. "The tree," one squawked, "the tree, the tree," whilst the second screamed only,

"Theon, Theon, Theon."

Theon Greyjoy smiled. They know my name, he thought.


14/55

Mercy

She woke with a gasp, not knowing who she was, or where.

The smell of blood was heavy in her nostrils or was that her nightmare, lingering? She had

dreamed of wolves again, of running through some dark pine forest with a great pack at her

hells, hard on the scent of prey.

Half-light filled the room, grey and gloomy. Shivering, she sat up in bed and ran a hand across

her scalp. Stubble bristled against her palm. I need to shave before Izembaro sees. Mercy, Im

Mercy, and tonight Ill be raped and murdered. Her true name was Mercedene, but Mercy was

all anyone ever called her

Except in dreams. She took a breath to quiet the howling in her heart, trying to remember

more of what shed dreamt, but most of it had gone already. There had been blood in it,

though, and a full moon overhead, and a tree that watched her as she ran.

She had fastened the shutters back so the morning sun might wake her. But there was no sun

outside the window of Mercys little room, only a wall of shifting grey fog. The air had grown

chilly and a good thing, else she might have slept all day. It would be just like Mercy to sleep

through her own rape.

Gooseprickles covered her legs. Her coverlet had twisted around her like a snake. She

unwound it, threw the blanket to the bare plank floor and padded naked to the window.

Braavos was lost in fog. She could see the green water of the little canal below, the cobbled

stone street that ran beneath her building, two arches of the mossy bridge but the far end ofthe bridge vanished in greyness, and of the buildings across the canal only a few vague lights

remained. She heard a soft splash as a serpent boat emerged beneath the bridges central

arch. What hour? Mercy called down to the man who stood by the snakes uplifted tail,

pushing her onward with his pole.

The waterman gazed up, searching for the voice. Four, by the Titans roar. His words echoed

hollowly off the swirling green waters and the walls of unseen buildings.

She was not late, not yet, but she should not dawdle. Mercy was a happy soul and a hard

worker, but seldom timely. That would not serve tonight. The envoy from Westeros was

expected at the Gate this evening, and Izembaro would be in no mood to hear excuses, even if

she served them up with a sweet smile.

She had filled her basin from the canal last night before she went to sleep, preferring the

brackish water to the slimy green rainwater stewing in the cistern out back. Dipping a rough

cloth, she washed herself head to heel, standing on one leg at a time to scrub her calloused

feet. After that she found her razor. A bare scalp helped the wigs fit better, Izembaro claimed.

She shaved, donned her smallclothes, and slipped a shapeless brown wool dress down over

her head. One of her stockings needed mending, she saw as she pulled it up. She would ask the

Snapper for help; her own sewing was so wretched that the wardrobe mistress usually tookpity on her. Else I could filtch a nicer pair from wardrobe. That was risky, though. Izembaro


15/55

hated it when the mummers wore his costumes in the streets. Except for Wendeyne. Give

Izembaros cock a little suck and a girl can wear any costume that she wants. Mercy was not so

foolish as all that. Daena had warned her. Girls who start down that road wind up on the Ship,

where every man in the pit knows he can have any pretty thing he might see up on the stage, if

his purse is plump enough.

Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long

wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a

knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her

shoulders. It was a real mummers cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the

rain off, and three secret pockets too. Shed hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in

another, a blade in the last. A real blade, not a fruit knife like the one on her hip, but it did not

belong to Mercy, no more than her other treasures did. The fruit knife belonged to Mercy. She

was made for eating fruit, for smiling and joking, for working hard and doing as she was told.

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, she sang as she descended the wooden stair to the street. The

handrail was splintery, the steps steep, and there were five flights, but that was why shed

gotten the room so cheap. That, and Mercys smile. She might be bald and skinny, but Mercy

had a pretty smile, and a certain grace. Even Izembaro agreed that she was graceful. She was

not far from the Gate as the crows flies, but for girls with feet instead of wings the way was

longer. Braavos was a crooked city. The streets were crooked, the alleys were crookeder, and

the canals were crookedest of all. Most days she preferred to go the long way, down the

Ragmans Road along the Outer Harbor, where she had the sea before her and the sky above,

and a clear view across the Great Lagoon to the Arsenal and the piney slopes of Sellagoros

Shield. Sailors would hail her as she passed the docks, calling down from the decks of tarry

Ibbenese whalers and big-bellied Westerosi cogs. Mercy could not always understand their

words, but she knew what they were saying. Sometimes she would smile back and tell them

they could find her at the Gate if they had the coin.

The long way also took her across the Bridge of Eyes with its carved stone faces. From the top

of its span, she could look through the arches and see all the city: the green copper domes of

the Hall of Truth, the masts rising like a forest from the Purple Harbor, the tall towers of the

mighty, the golden thunderbolt turning on its spire atop the Sealords Palace even the Titans

bronze shoulders, off across the dark green waters. But that was only when the sun was

shining down on Braavos. If the fog was thick there was nothing to see but grey, so today

Mercy chose the shorter route to save some wear on her poor cracked boots.

The mists seemed to part before her and close up again as she passed. The cobblestones were

wet and slick under her feet. She heard a cat yowl plaintively. Braavos was a good city for cats,

and they roamed everywhere, especially at night. In the fog all cats are grey, Mercy thought. In

the fog all men are killers.

She had never seen a thicker fog than this one. On the larger canals, the watermen would be

running their serpent boats into one another, unable to make out any more than dim lights

from the buildings to either side of them.


16/55

Mercy passed an old man with a lantern walking the other way, and envied him his light. The

street was so gloomy she could scarcely see where she was stepping. In the humbler parts of

the city, the houses, shops, and warehouses crowded together, leaning on each other like

drunken lovers, their upper stories so close that you could step from one balcony to the next.

The streets below became dark tunnels where every footfall echoed. The small canals were

even more hazardous, since many of the houses that lined them had privies jutting out over

the water. Izembaro loved to give the Sealords speech from The Merchants Melancholy

Daughter, about how here the last Titan yet stands, astride the stony shoulders of his

brothers, but Mercy preferred the scene where the fat merchant shat on the Sealords head

as he passed underneath in his gold-and-purple barge. Only in Braavos could something like

that happen, it was said, and only in Braavos would Sealord and sailor alike howl with laughter

to see it.

The Gate stood close by the edge of Drowned Town, between the Outer Harbor and the Purple

Harbor. An old warehouse had burnt there and the ground was sinking a little more each year,

so the land came cheap. Atop the flooded stone foundation of the warehouse, Izembaro raised

his cavernous playhall. The Dome and the Blue Lantern might enjoy more fashionable

environs, he told his mummers, but here between the harbors they would never lack for

sailors and whores to fill their pit. The Ship was close by, still pulling handsome crowds to the

quay where she had been moored for twenty years, he said, and the Gate would flourish too.

Time had proved him right. The Gates stage had developed a tilt as the building settled, their

costumes were prone to mildew, and water snakes nested in the flooded cellar, but none of

that troubled the mummers so long as the house was full.

The last bridge was made of rope and raw planks, and seemed to dissolve into nothingness,

but that was only the fog. Mercy scampered across, her heels ringing on the wood. The fog

opened before her like a tattered grey curtain to reveal the playhouse. Buttery yellow light

spilled from the doors, and Mercy could hear voices from within. Beside the entrance, Big

Brusco had painted over the title of the last show, and written The Bloody Hand in its place in

huge red letters. He was painting a bloody hand beneath the words, for those who could not

read. Mercy stopped to have a look. Thats a nice hand, she told him.

Thumbs crooked. Brusco dabbed at it with his brush. King o the Mummers been asking

after you.

It was so dark I slept and slept. When Izembaro had first dubbed himself the King of the

Mummers, the company had taken a wicked pleasure in it, savoring the outrage of their rivals

from the Dome and the Blue Lantern. Of late, though, Izembaro had begun to take his title too

seriously. He will only play kings now, Marro said, rolling his eyes, and if the play has no

king in it, he would sooner not stage it at all.

The Bloody Hand offered two kings, the fat one and the boy. Izembaro would play the fat one.

It was not a large part, but he had a fine speech as he lay dying, and a splendid fight with a

demonic boar before that. Phario Forel had written it, and he had the bloodiest quill of all of

Braavos.


17/55

Mercy found the company assembled behind the stage, and slipped in between Daena and the

Snapper at the back, hoping her late arrival would go unnoticed. Izembaro was telling

everyone that he expected the Gate to be packed to the rafters this evening, despite the fog.

The King of Westeros is sending his envoy to do homage to the King of the Mummers

tonight, he told his troupe. We will not disappoint our fellow monarch.

We? said the Snapper, who did all the costumes for the mummers. Is there more than one

of him, now?

Hes fat enough to count for two, whispered Bobono. Every mummers troupe had to have a

dwarf. He was theirs. When he saw Mercy, he gave her a leer. Oho, he said, there she is. Is

the little girl all ready for her rape? He smacked his lips.

The Snapper smacked him in the head. Be quiet.

The King of the Mummers ignored the brief commotion. He was still talking, telling the

mummers how magnificent they must be. Besides the Westerosi envoy, there would be

keyholders in the crowd this evening, and famous courtesans as well. He did not intend for

them to leave with a poor opinion of the Gate. It shall go ill for any man who fails me, he

promised, a threat he borrowed from the speech Prince Garin gives on the eve of battle in

Wroth of the Dragonlords, Phario Forels first play.

By the time Izembaro finally finished speaking, less than an hour remained before the show,

and the mummers were all frantic and fretful by turns. The Gate rang to the sound of Mercys

name.

Mercy, her friend Daena implored, Lady Stork has stepped on the hem of her gown again.

Come help me sew it up.

Mercy, the Stranger called, bring the bloody paste, my horn is coming loose.

Mercy, boomed Izembaro the Great himself, what have you done with my crown, girl? I

cannot make my entrance without my crown. How shall they know that Im a king?

Mercy, squeaked the dwarf Bobono, Mercy, somethings amiss with my laces, my cock

keeps flopping out.

She fetched the sticky paste and fastened the Strangers left horn back onto his forehead. Shefound Izembaros crown in the privy where he always left it and helped him pin it to his wig,

and then ran for needle and thread so the Snapper could sew the lace hem back onto the

cloth-of-gold gown that the queen would wear in the wedding scene.

And Bobonos cock was indeed flopping out. It was made to flop out, for the rape. What a

hideous thing, Mercy thought as she knelt before the dwarf to fix him. The cock was a foot

long and as thick as her arm, big enough to be seen from the highest balcony. The dyer had

done a poor job with the leather, though; the thing was a mottled pink and white, with a

bulbous head the color of a plum. Mercy pushed it back into Bobonos breeches and laced him

back up. Mercy, he sang as she tied him tight, Mercy, Mercy, come to my room tonight and

make a man of me.


18/55

Ill make a eunuch of you if you keep unlacing yourself just so Ill fiddle with your crotch.

We were meant to be together, Mercy, Bobono insisted. Look, were just the same height.

Only when Im on my knees. Do you remember your first line? It had only been a fortnight

since the dwarf had lurched onto stage in his cups and opened The Anguish of the Archon with

the grumpkins speech from The Merchants Lusty Lady. Izembaro would skin him alive if he

made such a blunder again, and never mind how hard it was to find a good dwarf.

What are we playing, Mercy? Bobono asked innocently.

He is teasing me, Mercy thought. Hes not drunk tonight, he knows the show perfectly well.

We are doing Pharios new Bloody Hand, in honor of the envoy from the Seven Kingdoms.

Now I recall. Bobono lowered his voice to a sinister croak. The seven-faced god has cheatedme, he said. My noble sire he made of purest gold, and gold he made my siblings, boy and

girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and blood and clay, twisted into this rude shape

you see before you. With that, he grabbed at her chest, fumbling for a nipple. You have no

titties. How can I rape a girl with no titties?

She caught his nose between her thumb and forefinger and twisted. Youll have no nose until

you get your hands off me.

Owwwww, the dwarf squealed, releasing her.

Ill grow tittiesin a year or two. Mercy rose, to tower over the little man. But youll nevergrow another nose. You think of that, before you touch me there.

Bobono rubbed his tender nose. Theres no need to get so shy. Ill be raping you soon

enough.

Not until thesecond act.

I always give Wendeynes titties a nice squeeze when I rape her in The Anguish of the

Archon, the dwarf complained. She likes it, and the pit does too. You have to please the pit.

That was one of Izembaros wisdoms, as he liked to call them. You have to please the pit. Ibet it would please the pit if I ripped off the dwarfs cock and beat him about the head with it,

Mercy replied. Thats something they wont have seen before. Always give them something

they havent seen before was another of Izembaros wisdoms, and one that Bobono had no

easy answer for. There, youre done, Mercy announced. Now see if you can keep in your

breeches till its needed.

Izembaro was calling for her again. Now he could not find his boar spear. Mercy found it for

him, helped Big Brusco don his boar suit, checked the trick daggers just to make certain no one

had replaced one with a real blade (someone had done that at the Dome once, and a mummer

had died), and poured Lady Stork the little nip of wine she liked to have before each play.


19/55

When all the cries of Mercy, Mercy, Mercy finally died away, she stole a moment for a quick

peek out into the house.

The pit was as full as ever shed seen it, and they were enjoying themselves already, joking and

jostling, eating and drinking. She saw a peddler selling chunks of cheese, ripping them off the

wheel with his fingers whenever he found a buyer. A woman had a bag of wrinkled apples.

Skins of wine were being passed from hand to hand, some girls were selling kisses, and one

sailor was playing the sea pipes. The sad-eyed little man called Quill stood in the back, come to

see what he could steal for one of his own plays. Cossomo the Conjurer had come as well, and

on his arm was Yna, the one-eyed whore from the Happy Port, but Mercy could not know

those two, and they would not know Mercy. Daena recognized some Gate regulars in the

crowd, and pointed them out for her; the dyer Dellono with his pinched white face and

mottled purple hands, Galeo the sausage-maker in his greasy leather apron, tall Tomarro with

his pet rat on his shoulder. Tomarro best not let Galeo see that rat, Daena warned. Thats

the only meat he puts in them sausages, I hear. Mercy covered her mouth and laughed.

The balconies were filling too. The first and third levels were for merchants and captains and

other respectable folk. The bravos preferred the fourth and highest, where the seats were

cheapest. It was a riot of bright color up there, while down below more somber shades held

sway. The second balcony was cut up into private boxes where the mighty could comport

themselves in comfort and privacy, safely apart from the vulgarity above and below. They had

the best view of the stage, and servants to bring them food, wine, cushions, whatever they

might desire. It was rare to find the second balcony more than half full at the Gate; such of the

mighty who relished a night of mummery were more inclined to visit the Dome or the Blue

Lantern, where the offerings were considered subtler and more poetic.

This night was different, though, no doubt on account of the Westerosi envoy. In one box sat

three scions of Otharys, each accompanied by a famous courtesan; Prestayn sat alone, a man

so ancient that you wondered how he ever reached his seat; Torone and Pranelis shared a box,

as they shared an uncomfortable alliance; the Third Sword was hosting a half-dozen friends.

I count five keyholders, said Daena.

Bessaro is so fat you ought to count him twice, Mercy replied, giggling. Izembaro had a belly

on him, but compared to Bessaro he was as lithe as a willow. The keyholder was so big he

needed a special seat, thrice the size of a common chair.

Theyre all fat, them Reyaans, Daena said. Bellies as big as their ships. You should have seen

the father. He made this one look small. One time he was summoned to the Hall of Truth to

vote, but when he stepped onto his barge it sank. She clutched Mercy by the elbow. Look,

the Sealords box. The Sealord had never visited the Gate, but Izembaro named a box for him

anyway, the largest and most opulent in the house. That must be the Westerosi envoy. Have

you ever seen such clothes on an old man? And look, hes brought the Black Pearl!

The envoy was slight and balding, with a funny grey wisp of a beard growing from his chin. His

cloak was yellow velvet, and his breeches. His doublet was a blue so bright it almost made

Mercys eyes water. Upon his breast a shield had been embroidered in yellow thread, and on


20/55

the shield was a proud blue rooster picked out in lapis lazuli. One of his guards helped him to

his seat, while two others stood behind him in the back of the box.

The woman with him could not have been more than a third his age. She was so lovely that the

lamps seemed to burn brighter when she passed. She had dressed in a low-cut gown of pale

yellow silk, startling against the light brown of her skin. Her black hair was bound up in a net of

spun gold, and a jet-and-gold necklace brushed against the top of her full breasts. As they

watched, she leaned close to the envoy and whispered something in his ear that made him

laugh. They should call her the Brown Pearl, Mercy said to Daena. Shes more brown than

black.

The first Black Pearl was black as a pot of ink, said Daena. She was a pirate queen, fathered

by a Sealords son on a princess from the Summer Isles. A dragon king from Westeros took her

for his lover.

I would like to see a dragon, Mercy said wistfully. Why does the envoy have a chicken on hischest?

Daena howled. Mercy, dont you know anything? Its his siggle. In the Sunset Kingdoms all the

lords have siggles. Some have flowers, some have fish, some have bears and elks and other

things. See, the envoys guards are wearing lions.

It was true. There were four guards; big, hard-looking men in ringmail, with heavy Westerosi

longswords sheathed at their hips. Their crimson cloaks were bordered in whorls of gold, and

golden lions with red garnet eyes clasped each cloak at the shoulder. When Mercy glanced at

the faces beneath the gilded, lion-crested helm, her belly gave a quiver. The gods have given

me a gift. Her fingers clutched hard at Daenas arm. That guard. The one on the end, behind

the Black Pearl.

What of him? Do you know him?

No. Mercy had been born and bred in Braavos, how could she know some Westerosi? She

had to think a moment. Its only well, hes fair to look on, dont you think? He was, in a

rough-hewn way, though his eyes were hard.

Daena shrugged. Hes very old. Not so old as the other ones, but he could be thirty. And

Westerosi. Theyre terrible savages, Mercy. Best stay well away from his sort.

Stay away? Mercy giggled. She was a giggly sort of girl, was Mercy. No. Ive got to get

closer. She gave Daena a squeeze and said, If the Snapper comes looking for me, tell her that

I went off to read my lines again. She only had a few, and most were just, Oh, no, no, no,

and Dont, oh dont, dont touch me, and Please, mlord, I am still a maiden, but this was

the first time Izembaro had given her any lines at all, so it was only to be expected that poor

Mercy would want to get them right.

The envoy from the Seven Kingdoms had taken two of his guards into his box to stand behind

him and the Black Pearl, but the other two had been posted just outside the door to make

certain he was not disturbed. They were talking quietly in the Common Tongue of Westeros as


21/55

she slipped up silently behind them in the darkened passage. That was not a language Mercy

knew.

Seven hells, this place is damp, she heard her guard complain. Im chilled to the bones.

Where are the bloody orange trees? I always heard there were orange trees in the Free Cities.

Lemons and limes. Pomegranates. Hot peppers, warm nights, girls with bare bellies. Where are

the bare-bellied girls, I ask you?

Down in Lys, and Myr, and Old Volantis, the other guard replied. He was an older man, big-

bellied and grizzled. I went to Lys with Lord Tywin once, when he was Hand to Aerys. Braavos

is north of Kings Landing, fool. Cant you read a bloody map?

How long do you think well be here?

Longer than youd like, the old man replied. If he goes back without the gold the queen will

have his head. Besides, I seen that wife of his. Theres steps in Casterly Rock she cant go down

for fear shed get stuck, thats how fat she is. Whod go back to that, when he has his sooty

queen?

The handsome guardsman grinned. Dont suppose hell share her with us, afterward?

What, are you mad? You think he notices the likes of us? Bloody bugger dont even get our

names right half the time. Maybe it was different with Clegane.

Ser wasnt one for mummer shows and fancy whores. When Ser wanted a woman he took

one, but sometimes hed let us have her, after. I wouldnt mind having a taste of that Black

Pearl. You think shes pink between her legs?

Mercy wanted to hear more, but there was no time. The Bloody Hand was about to start, and

the Snapper would be looking for her to help with costumes. Izembaro might be the King of

the Mummers, but the Snapper was the one that they all feared. Time enough for her pretty

guardsman later.

The Bloody Hand opened in a lichyard.

When the dwarf appeared suddenly from behind a wooden tombstone, the crowd began to

hiss and curse. Bobono waddled to the front of the stage and leered at them. The seven-faced

god has cheated me, he began, snarling the words. My noble sire he made of purest gold,and gold he made my siblings, boy and girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and

blood and clay

By then Marro had appeared behind him, gaunt and terrible in the Strangers long black robes.

His face was black as well, his teeth red and shiny with blood, while ivory horns jutted upwards

from his brow. Bobono could not see him, but the balconies could, and now the pit as well. The

Gate grew deathly quiet. Marro moved forward silently.

So did Mercy. The costumes were all hung, and the Snapper was busy sewing Daena into her

gown for the court scene, so Mercys absence should not be noted. Quiet as a shadow, sheslipped around the back again, up to where the guardsmen stood outside the envoys box.


22/55

Standing in a darkened alcove, still as stone, she had a good look at his face. She studied it

carefully, to be sure. Am I too young for him? she wondered. Too plain? Too skinny? She

hoped he wasnt the sort of man who liked big breasts on a girl. Bobono had been right about

her chest. It would be best if I could take him back to my place, have him all to myself. But will

he come with me?

You think it might be him? the pretty one was saying.

What, did the Others take your wits?

Why not? Hes a dwarf, aint he?

The Imp werent the only dwarf in the world.

Maybe not, but look here, everyone says how clever he was, true? So maybe he figures the

last place his sister would ever look for him would be in some mummer show, making fun of

himself. So he does just that, to tweak her nose.

Ah, youre mad.

Well, maybe Ill follow him after the mummery. Find out for myself. The guardsman put a

hand on the hilt of his sword. If Im right, Ill be a ma lord, and if Im wrong, well, bleed it, its

just some dwarf. He gave a bark of laughter.

On stage, Bobono was bargaining with Marros sinister Stranger. He had a big voice for such a

little man, and he made it ring off the highest rafters now. Give me the cup, he told the

Stranger, for I shall drink deep. And if it tastes of gold and lions blood, so much the better. As

I cannot be the hero, let me be the monster, and lesson them in fear in place of love.

Mercy mouthed the last lines along with him. They were better lines than hers, and apt

besides. Hell want me or he wont, she thought, so let the play begin. She said a silent prayer

to the god of many faces, slipped out of her alcove, and flounced up to the guardsmen. Mercy,

Mercy, Mercy. My lords, she said, do you speak Braavosi? Oh, please, tell me you do.

The two guardsmen exchanged a look. Whats this thing going on about? the older one

asked. Who is she?

One of the mummers, said the pretty one. He pushed his fair hair back off his brow andsmiled at her. Sorry, sweetling, we dont speak your gibble-gabble.

Fuss and feathers, Mercy thought, they only know the Common Tongue. That was no good.

Give it up or go ahead. She could not give it up. She wanted him so bad. I know your tongue, a

little, she lied, with Mercys sweetest smile. You are lords of Westeros, my friend said.

The old one laughed. Lords? Aye, thats us.

Mercy looked down at her feet, so shy. Izembaro said to please the lords, she whispered. If

there is anything you want, anything at all


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The two guardsmen exchanged a look. Then the handsome one reached out and touched her

breast. Anything?

Youre disgusting, said the older man.

Why? If this Izembaro wants to be hospitable, it would be rude to refuse. He gave her nipplea tweak through the fabric of her dress, just the way the dwarf had done when she was fixing

his cock for him. Mummers are the next best thing to whores.

Might be, but this one is a child.

I am not, lied Mercy. Im a maiden now.

Not for long, said the comely one. Im Lord Rafford, sweetling, and I know just what I want.

Hike up those skirts now, and lean back against that wall.

Not here, Mercy said, brushing his hands away. Not where the play is on. I might cry out,and Izembaro would be mad.

Where, then?

I know a place.

The older guard was scowling. What, you think can just scamper off? What if his knightliness

comes looking for you?

Why would he? Hes got a show to watch. And hes got his own whore, why shouldnt I have

mine? This wont take long.

No, she thought, it wont. Mercy took him by the hand, led him through the back and down

the steps and out into the foggy night. You could be a mummer, if you wanted, she told him,

as he pressed her up against the wall of the playhouse.

Me? The guardsman snorted. Not me, girl. All that bloody talking, I wouldnt remember half

of it.

Its hard at first, she admitted. But after a time it comes easier. I could teach you to say a

line. I could.

He grabbed her wrist. Ill do the teaching. Time for your first lesson. He pulled her hard

against him and kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth. It was all wet and

slimy, like an eel. Mercy licked it with her own tongue, then broke away from him, breathless.

Not here. Someone might see. My rooms not far, but hurry. I have to be back before the

second act, or Ill miss my rape.

He grinned. No fear o that, girl. But he let her pull him after her. Hand in hand, they went

racing through the fog, over bridges and through alleys and up five flights of splintery wooden

stairs. The guardsman was panting by the time they burst through the door of her little room.

Mercy lit a tallow candle, then danced around at him, giggling. Oh, now youre all tired out. I


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forgot how old you were, mlord. Do you want to take a little nap? Just lie down and close your

eyes, and Ill come back after the Imps done raping me.

Youre not going anywhere. He pulled her roughly to him. Get those rags off, and Ill show

you how old I am, girl.

Mercy, she said. My name is Mercy. Can you say it?

Mercy, he said. My name is Raff.

I know. She slipped her hand between his legs, and felt how hard he was through the wool of

his breeches.

The laces, he urged her. Be a sweet girl and undo them. Instead she slid her finger down

along the inside of his thigh. He gave a grunt. Damn, be careful there, you

Mercy gave a gasp and stepped away, her face confused and frightened. Youre bleeding.

Wha He looked down at himself. Gods be good. What did you do to me, you little cunt?

The red stain spread across his thigh, soaking the heavy fabric.

Nothing, Mercy squeaked. I never oh, oh, theres so much blood. Stop it, stop it, youre

scaring me.

He shook his head, a dazed look on his face. When he pressed his hand to his thigh, blood

squirted through his fingers. It was running down his leg, into his boot. He doesnt look so

comely now, she thought. He just looks white and frightened.

A towel, the guardsman gasped. Bring me a towel, a rag, press down on it. Gods. I feel

dizzy. His leg was drenched with blood from the thigh down. When he tried to put his weight

on it, his knee buckled and he fell. Help me, he pleaded, as the crotch of his breeches

reddened. Mother have mercy, girl. A healer run and find a healer, quick now.

Theres one on the next canal, but he wont come. You have to go to him. Cant you walk?

Walk? His fingers were slick with blood. Are you blind, girl? Im bleeding like a stuck pig. I

cant walk on this.

Well, she said, I dont know how youll get there, then.

Youll need to carry me.

See? thought Mercy. You know your line, and so do I.

Think so? asked Arya, sweetly.

Raff the Sweetling looked up sharply as the long thin blade came sliding from her sleeve. She

slipped it through his throat beneath the chin, twisted, and ripped it back out sideways with a

single smooth slash. A fine red rain followed, and in his eyes the light went out.


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Valar morghulis, Arya whispered, but Raff was dead and did not hear. She sniffed. I should

have helped him down the steps before I killed him. Now Ill need to drag him all the way to

the canal and roll him in. The eels would do the rest.

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, she sang sadly. A foolish, giddy girl shed been, but good hearted. She

would miss her, and she would miss Daena and the Snapper and the rest, even Izembaro and

Bobono. This would make trouble for the Sealord and the envoy with the chicken on his chest,

she did not doubt.

She would think about that later, though. Just now, there was no time. I had best run. Mercy

still had some lines to say, her first lines and her last, and Izembaro would have her pretty little

empty head if she were late for her own rape.


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Victarion

The Noble Lady was a tub of a ship, as fat and wallowing as the noble ladies of the green lands.

Her holds were huge, and Victarion packed them with armed men. With her would sail the

other, lesser prizes that the Iron Fleet had taken on its long voyage to Slaver's Bay, a lubberlyassortment of cogs, great cogs, carracks, and trading galleys salted here and there with fishing

boats. It was a fleet both fat and feeble, promising much in the way of wool and wines and

other trade goods and little in the way of danger. Victarion gave the command of it to Wulf

One-Ear.

"The slavers may shiver when they spy your sails rising from the sea," he told him. "but once

they see you plain they will laugh at their fears. Traders and fishers, that's all you are. Any man

can see that. Let them get close as they like, but keep your men hidden belowdecks until you

are ready. Then close, and board them. Free the slaves and feed the slavers to the sea, but

take the ships. We will have need of every hull to carry us back home."

"Home," Wulf grinned. "The men'll like the sound o' that, Lord Captain. The ships firstthen

we break these Yunkishmen. Aye."

The Iron Victory was lashed alongside the Noble Lady, the two ships bound tight with chains

and grappling hooks, a ladder stretched between them. The great cog was much larger than

the warship and sat higher in the water. All along the gunwales the faces of the Ironborn

peered down, watching as Victarion clapped Wulf One-Ear on the shoulder and sent him

clambering up the ladder. The sea was smooth and still, the sky bright with stars. Wulf ordered

the ladder drawn up, the chains cast off. The warship and the cog parted ways. In the distance

the rest of Victarion's famed fleet was raising sail. A ragged cheer went up from the crew of

the Iron Victory, and was answered in kind by the men of the Noble Lady.

Victarion had given Wulf his best fighters. He envied them. They would be the first to strike a

blow, the first to see that look of fear in the foemen's eyes. As he stood at the prow of the Iron

Victory watching One-Ear's merchant ships vanish one by one into the west, the faces of the

first foes he'd ever slain came back to Victarion Greyjoy. He thought of his first ship, of his first

woman. A restlessness was in him, a hunger for the dawn and the things this day would bring.

Death or glory, I will drink my fill of both today. The Seastone Chair should've been his when

Balon died, but his brother Euron had stolen it from him, just as he had stolen his wife many

years before. He stole her and he soiled her, but he left it for me to slay her.

All that was done and gone now, though. Victarion would have his due at last. I have the horn,

and soon I will have the woman. A woman lovelier than the wife he made me kill.

"Captain." The voice belonged to Longwater Pyke. "The oarsmen await your pleasure."

Three of them, and strong ones. "Send them to my cabin. I'll want the priest as well."

The oarsmen were all big. One was a boy, one a brute, one a bastards bastard. The Boy had

been rowing for less than a year, the Brute for twenty. They had names, but Victarion did not

know them. One had come from Lamentation, one from Sparrow Hawk, one from Spider Kiss.


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He could not be expected to know the names of every thrall who had ever pulled an oar in the

Iron Fleet.

Show them the horn, he commanded, when the three had been ushered into his cabin.

Moqorro brought it forth, and the dusky woman lifted up a lantern to give them all a look. Inthe shifting lantern light the hell-horn seemed to writhe and turn in the priests hands like a

serpent fighting to escape. Moqorro was a man of monstrous sizebig-bellied, broad-

shouldered, toweringbut even in his grasp the horn looked huge.

My brother found this thing on Valyria, Victarion told the thralls. Think how big the dragon

mustve been to bear two of these upon his head. Bigger than Vhagar or Meraxes, bigger than

Balerion the Black Dread. He took the horn from Moqorro and ran his palm along its curves.

At the Kingsmoot on Old Wyk one of Eurons mutes blew upon this horn. Some of you will

remember. It was not a sound that any man who heard it will ever forget.

They say he died, the Boy said, him who blew the horn.

Aye. The horn was smoking after. The mute had blisters on his lips, and the bird inked across

his chest was bleeding. He died the next day. When they cut him open his lungs were black.

The horn is cursed, said the Bastards Bastard.

A dragons horn from Valyria, said Victarion. Aye, its cursed. I never said it wasnt. He

brushed his hand across one of the red gold bands and the ancient glyph seemed to sing

beneath his fingertips. For half a heartbeat he wanted nothing so much as to sound the horn

himself. Euron was a fool to give me this, it is a precious thing, and powerful. With this Ill winthe Seastone Chair, and then the Iron Throne. With this Ill win the world.

Claggorn blew the horn thrice and died for it. He was as big as any of you, and strong as me.

So strong that he could twist a mans head right off his shoulders with only his bare hands, and

yet the horn killed him.

It will kill us too, then, said the Boy.

Victarion did not oft forgive a thrall for talking out of turn, but the Boy was young, no more

than twenty, and soon to die besides. He let it pass.

The mute sounded the horn three times. You three will sound it only once. Might be youll

die, might be you wont. All men die. The Iron Fleet is sailing into battle. Many on this very ship

will be dead before the sun goes downstabbed or slashed, gutted, drowned, burned alive

only the Gods know which of us will still be here come the morrow. Sound the horn and live

and Ill make free men of you, one or two or all three. Ill give you wives, a bit of land, a ship to

sail, thralls of your own. Men will know your names.

Even you, Lord Captain? asked the Bastards Bastard.

Aye.

Ill do it then.


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And me, said the Boy.

The Brute crossed his arms and nodded.

If it made the three feel braver to believe they had a choice, let them cling to that. Victarion

cared little what they believed, they were only thralls.

You will sail with me on Iron Victory, he told them, but you will not join the battle. Boy,

youre the youngest youll sound the horn first. When the time comes you will blow it long

and loud. They say you are strong. Blow the horn until you are too weak to stand, until the last

bit of breath has been squeezed from you, until your lungs are burning. Let the freedmen hear

you in Meereen, the slavers in Yunkai, the ghosts in Astapor. Let the monkeys shit themselves

at the sound when it rolls across the Isle of Cedars. Then pass the horn along to the next man.

Do you hear me? Do you know what to do?

The Boy and the Bastards Bastard tugged their forelocks; the Brute mightve done the same,

but he was bald.

You may touch the horn. Then go.

They left him one by one. The three thralls, and then Moqorro. Victarion would not let him

take the hell-horn.

I will keep it here with me, until it is needed.

As you command. Would you have me bleed you?

Victarion seized the dusky woman by the wrist and pulled her to him. She will do it. Go prayto your red god. Light your fire, and tell me what you see.

Moqorros dark eyes seemed to shine. I see dragons.


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Arianne

They struck out north by northwest, across drylands and parched plains and pale sands

toward Ghost Hill, the stronghold of House Toland, where the ship that would take them

across the Sea of Dorne awaited them. "Send a raven whenever you have news," Prince Dorantold her, "but report only what you know to be true. We are lost in fog here, besieged by

rumors, falsehoods, and travelers tales. I dare not act until I know for a certainty what is

happening."

War is happening, though Arianne, and this time Dorne will not be spared. "Doom and

death are coming," Ellaria Sand had warned them, before she took her own leave from Prince

Doran. "It is time for my little snakes to scatter, the better to survive the carnage." Ellaria was

returning to her fathers seat at Hellholt. With her went her daughter Loreza, who had just

turned seven. Dorea remained at the Water Gardens, one child amongst a hundred. Obella

was to be dispatched to Sunspear, to serve as a cupbearer to the wife of the castellan,Manfrey Martell.

And Elia Sand, oldest of the four girls that Prince Oberyn had fathered on Ellaria, would

cross the Sea of Dorne with Arianne. "As a lady, not a lance," her mother said firmly, but like

all the Sand Snakes, Elia had her own mind.

They crossed the sands in two long days and the better part of two nights, stopping thrice

to change their horses. It was a lonely time for Arianne, surrounded by so many strangers.

Elia was her cousin, but half a child, and Daemon Sand things had never been the same

between her and the Bastard of Godsgrace after her father refused his offer for her hand. He

was a boy then, and bastard born, no fit consort for a princess of Dorne, he should have known

better. And it was my fathers will, not mine. The rest of her companions she hardly knew at

all.

Arianne missed her friends. Drey and Garin and her sweet Spotted Slyva had been a part of

her since she was little, trusted confidants who had shared her dreams and secrets, cheered

her when she was sad, helped her face her fears. One of them had betrayed her, but she

missed them all the same. It was my own fault. Arianne had made them part of her plot to

steal off with Myrcella Baratheon and crown her queen, an act of rebellion meant to force her

fathers hand, but someones loose tongue had undone her. The clumsy conspiracy had

accomplished nothing, except to cost poor Myrcella part of her face, and Ser Arys Oakheart his

life.

Arianne missed Ser Arys too, more than she ever would have thought. He loved me madly,

she told herself, yet I was never more than fond of him. I made use of him in my bed and in

my plot, took his love and took his honor, gave him nothing but my body. In the end he could

not live with what wed done. Why else would her white knight have charged right into Areo

Hotahs longaxe, to die the way he did? I was a foolish willful girl, playing at the game of

thrones like a drunkard rolling dice.

The cost of her folly had been dear. Drey had been sent across the world to Norvos, Garin

exiled to Tyrosh for two years, her sweet silly smiling Slyva married off to Eldon Estermont, a


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man old enough to be her grandsire. Ser Arys had paid with his lifes blood, Myrcella with an

ear.

Only Ser Gerold Dayne had escaped unscathed. Darkstar. If Myrcellas horse had not shied

at the last instant, his longsword would have opened her from chest to waist instead just

taking off her ear. Dayne was her most grievous sin, the one that Arianne most regretted.

With one stroke of his sword, he had changed her botched plot into something foul and

bloody. If the gods were good, by now Obara Sand had treed him in his mountain fastness and

put an end to him.

She said as much to Daemon Sand that first night, as they made camp. "Be careful what

you pray for, princess," he replied. "Darkstar could put an end to Lady Obara just as easily."

"She has Areo Hotah with her." Prince Dorans captain of guards had dispatched Ser Arys

Oakheart with a single blow, though the Kingsguard were supposed to be the finest knights in

all the realm. "No man can stand against Hotah."

"Is that what Darkstar is? A man?" Ser Daemon grimaced. "A man would not have done

what he did to Princess Myrcella. Ser Gerold is more a viper than your uncle ever was. Prince

Oberyn could see that he was poison, he said so more than once. Its just a pity that he never

got around to killing him."

Poison, thought Arianne. Yes. Pretty poison, though. That was how hed fooled her.

Gerold Dayne was hard and cruel, but so fair to look upon that the princess had not believed

half the tales shed heard of him. Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the

ones who were dark and dangerous as well. That was before, when I was just a girl, she told

herself. I am a woman now, my fathers daughter. I have learned that lesson.

Come break of day, they were off again. Elia Sand led the way, her black braid flying behind

her as she raced across the dry, cracked plains and up into the hills. The girl was mad for

horses, which might be why she often smelled like one, to the despair of her mother.

Sometimes Arianne felt sorry for Ellaria. Four girls, and every one of them her fathers

daughter.

The rest of the party kept a more sedate pace. The princess found herself riding beside Ser

Daemon, remembering other rides when they were younger, rides that often ended in

embraces. When she found herself stealing glances at him, tall and gallant in the saddle,

Arianne reminded herself that she was heir to Dorne, and him no more than her shield. "Tell

me what you know of this Jon Connington," she commanded.

"Hes dead," said Daemon Sand. "He died in the Disputed Lands. Of drink, Ive heard it

said."

"So a dead drunk leads this army?"

"Perhaps this Jon Connington is a son of that one. Or just some clever sellsword who has

taken on a dead mans name."


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"Or he never died at all." Could Connington have been pretending to be dead for all these

years? That would require patience worthy of her father. The thought made Arianne uneasy.

Treating with a man that subtle could be perilous. "What was he like before he before he

died?"

"I was a boy at Godsgrace when he was sent into exile. I never knew the man."

"Then tell me what youve heard of him from others."

"As my princess commands. Connington was Lord of Griffins Roost when Griffins Roost

was still a lordship worth the having. Prince Rhaegars squire, or one of them. Later Prince

Rhaegars friend and companion. The Mad King named him Hand during Roberts Rebellion,

but he was defeated at Stoney Sept in the Battle of the Bells, and Robert slipped away. King

Aerys was wroth, and sent Connington into exile. There he died."

"Or not." Prince Doran had told her all of that. There must be more. "Those are just the

things he did. I know all that. What sort of man was he? Honest and honorable, venal and

grasping, proud?"

"Proud, for a certainty. Even arrogant. A faithful friend to Rhaegar, but prickly with others.

Robert was his liege, but Ive heard it said that Connington chafed at serving such a lord. Even

then, Robert was known to be fond of wine and whores."

"No whores for Lord Jon, then?"

"I could not say. Some men keep their whoring secret."

"Did he have a wife? A paramour?"

Ser Daemon shrugged. "Not that I have ever heard."

That was troubling too. Ser Arys Oakheart had broken his vows for her, but it did not sound

as if Jon Connington could be similarly swayed. Can I match such a man with words alone?

The princess lapsed into silence, all the while pondering what she would find at journeys

end. That night when they made camp, she crept into the tent she shared with Jayne

Ladybright and Elia Sand and slipped the bit of parchment out of her sleeve to read the words

again.

To Prince Doran of House Martell,

You will remember me, I pray. I knew your sister well,

and was a leal servant of your good-brother. I grieve

for them as you do. I did not die, no more than did

your sisters son. To save his life we kept him hidden,


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but the time for hiding is done. A dragon has returned

to Westeros to claim his birthright and seek vengeance

for his father, and for the princess Elia, his mother.

In her name I turn to Dorne. Do not forsake us.

Jon Connington

Lord of Griffins Roost

Hand of the True King

Arianne read the letter thrice, then rolled it up and tucked it back into her sleeve. A dragon

has returned to Westeros, but not the dragon my father was expecting. Nowhere in the wordswas there a mention of Daenerys Stormborn nor of Prince Quentyn, her brother, who had

been sent to seek the dragon queen. The princess remembered how her father had pressed

the onyx cyvasse piece into her palm, his voice hoarse and low as he confessed his plan. A long

and perilous voyage, with an uncertain welcome at its end, he had said. He has gone to bring

us back our hearts desire. Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood.

Fire and blood was what Jon Connington (if indeed it was him) was offering as well. Or was

it? "He comes with sellswords, but no dragons," Prince Doran had told her, the night the raven

came

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